


Forgotten Words

by Thalius



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: (for sam at least), Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9465725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: Thirteen years ago he would've broken Rafe’s wrist had he ever touched him, but now… now he did not think twice.Sam and Rafe, right after Sam's bailed out of prison.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from [this](https://el-goddamn-dorado.tumblr.com/post/155954499142/full-kiss-prompt-list) list sent to me by charmingviolence on tumblr! I don't usually write for this pairing and haven't before, but I'm really interested in their dynamic in the two years before Sam goes to his brother for help, and this is an offshoot of that. Might write more about this, but for now here's a slightly smutty hella angsty one-shot!

He wonders for a while when the ringing in his ears will stop.

The drive to the hotel is quiet. Rafe's car smells like old leather and a hint of cologne, both things he immediately recognises despite not encountering them for over a decade. Sam stares at the alien lights scattered across the BMW's dashboard, feeling all the more out of place in this expensive car while wearing old prison slacks and having only a half-remembered grasp of the English language.

Rafe says something to him then, and he forces himself to pay attention. "Sorry, what?"

"... need water?" he repeats, and Sam only understands the last half of the sentence.

"Me?" he asks, pointing to himself.

"Do you want water?" Rafe says again, this time in Spanish.

"Yes," he replies in kind, and the man reaches behind him without looking away from the road, pulling a bottle out of a compartment behind him.

Sam thanks him and drains half the bottle, not even wanting to figure out how it could possibly be cold, only that it was. "Your Spanish has gotten better," he says to the man.

"And your English has gotten worse," Rafe replies. "You'll need to work on that."

"Yeah." Sam finishes the bottle too soon and shoves the plastic between his legs on the seat. He looks out the window, flinching when he catches sight of the prison. It's almost obscured by the horizon and the distance between them now, but he can still make out the large concrete guard towers and the ribbons of barbed wire at the top. It looked a little different, but he'd never seen the prison this far away before—or had ever thought he'd be seeing it from the outside.

There's a question pressing at the back of his mind that's only gotten worse with the drive, a familiar parasite chewing at his brain and giving him a headache. It'd been with him for over a decade, and know when he finally has the chance to rid himself of the shadow, he finds himself hesitating. He isn't sure he wants to let a thirteen-year old uncertainty leave his companionship so quickly.

And then his mouth is moving, forming the words to a question he'd asked himself a thousand times. "Is Nathan alive?"

Rafe seems surprised by the question almost, until Sam looks at the digital clock on the dash and realises he hasn't spoken in almost twenty minutes. Then the man shrugs, tightening gloved hands on the wheel. "Far as I know," he says, the answer inconsequential to him. "Heard he's an entryman now, but we haven't crossed paths in years."

Sam just nods, the whisper of a thank-you on his lips, and looks back out the window.

Well. There it was. Just like that, the weight of not knowing lifts from his mind. No more wondering. His brother isn't dead.

The uncertainty is replaced with a dull ache, and all the knowledge does is make him feel more alone.

* * *

 

He cleans up at the hotel, has a real shower that he spends the better part of an hour standing under, and puts on a shirt and pajama bottoms that have been laid out for him. Either Rafe is a mind-reader, or he's very good at judging clothing sizes, because they fit better than Sam's prison rags.

It's night now, and despite having done nothing besides lounge in his cell and then ride to the hotel in Rafe's car all day, he's exhausted.

Rafe is at the desk, making a phone call to someone and speaking in low, rapid English that Sam can only pick out the occasional familiar word from. Job. Payment. Hiring. Rental. He really needed to work on refreshing his English.

Rafe hadn't looked up when Sam had walked out of the bathroom, so Sam finds the couch at the other end of the room and sank into the cushions.

He's still half-expecting to wake back up in his cell, this whole thing just some elaborate dream, but he doesn't think he could've dreamt how soft the sofa cushions were or how nourishing the warm spray of the shower had been. And Rafe had aged; he wears his hair differently now, and his shoulders had filled out from the skinny frame of a twenty-something. He still isn't very tall, but he makes up for it in presence. Sam hasn't met a lot of men under six feet able to command the attention of a room so well as Rafe Adler, but perhaps that's a good thing.

So maybe this whole thing isn't a dream. He isn't sure if he hopes for it to be real or not yet.

He's halfway to sleep when Rafe suddenly stopped speaking, and shoves away from the desk.

"Sam." His voice is quiet, but it snaps Sam awake. He frowns, blinking at him.

"What?"

Rafe nods towards the bedroom doors. "I got a hotel room so you could sleep in a bed." He's still speaking in Spanish, and although it's a bit wobbly Sam can still understand it a lot better than English.

He smiles tiredly at that. "Everything in this room is more comfortable than my cot, so I'm not picky."

Rafe doesn't say anything, only staring at him, a silent command for Sam to obey. He relents with a groan as he pushes himself up from the couch. He's too tall to lay out on the sofa anyway.

Sam shuffles past him and pushes open the door closest to him. The room lacks any real decorations and is almost sterile with how clean and white it all is, but the bed looks large and comfortable and that's all he really gives a shit about at the moment.

He sits down on the edge of the mattress, marvelling at being on a piece of furniture that didn't twang with old metal springs, and pressed a palm down into the springy foam of the bed.

"You really splurged on the amenities, didn't you—"

He lets his sentence die off when Rafe follows him into the room. He leaves the door open, but it still feels like Sam's being cornered.

He lets his hands go limp in his lap, feigning practiced nonchalance. "Uh, hi. Did you wanna talk, or…?"

Rafe is significantly smaller than Sam is, but he towers over him now, standing too close to him and holding his eyes with an intensity that is hard to keep eye contact with.

Rafe's hand comes up to touch his chin. His fingers are softer than they look. "Would you like company?"

It's not even really a question; it sounds like an order all unto itself, as if answering with anything besides a "yes" has already been considered and discarded as an option.

Sam's spent a great deal of time thinking on things in prison. On if it would ever be possible to plan an escape; on how his brother was doing; and on how Sister Katherine's gaunt face took up disapproving residence in his mind whenever his eyes lingered on the lines of corded muscle of his cell mate's arms for too long, or woke up sweating and gasping from a dream filled with half-formed images of hard flesh and stubbled jaws. He thought a lot on the last one, almost more than concerned thoughts for Nathan, which at first brought shame and then finally a dull acceptance. Not seeing a woman for thirteen years and being surrounded by angry, hard men brought to bear sensations he could no longer guiltily shove to the corner of his mind and ignore.

Thirteen years ago he would've broken Rafe's wrist had he ever touched him, but now… now when he's so starved for touch he can't think around how fucking soft Rafe's hand is and years' worth of silently damning the nuns for making him feel sick with shame whenever he found himself pressing into the hurried embrace of a man in the laundry room during guard change-overs… now he did not think twice.

Rafe seems to sense the acceptance of his commanding question and moves his grip from Sam's chin down to his chest to shove him back on the mattress. "Good," he thinks he hears Rafe say, but doesn't linger on the word. Not when the man's mouth has found his and there's already hands removing his shirt. He's hard almost instantly, his entire body throbbing and arching towards whatever contact he can soak up, and only someone as captivating and overbearing as Raphael fucking Adler could shove Sister Katherine's judgemental frown out of his mind for once in his life, and for a while Sam knows an oblivion that seems strangely like peace.


End file.
